


Fish nor Fowl

by SunnyD_lite



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-12
Updated: 2007-05-12
Packaged: 2017-10-08 06:35:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunnyD_lite/pseuds/SunnyD_lite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Midterms, papers to mark and Blair is hungry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fish nor Fowl

**Author's Note:**

> Set season three after Crossroads  
> This fic was inspired by**Sentinel_thurs** 191 prompt of His Savivor, and the **tamingthemuse** prompt 42 cafeteria.  
>  Disclaimer: These guys, and the Sentinel universe, are owned by PetFly. Just playing, not profit, no harm, right?

The growl his stomach let out made him wonder if it was auditioning for the cowardly lion. No projection there.

Blinking to help his eyes re-focus, Blair glanced at the clock. Damn, he'd missed the cafeteria. Again. One positive thing he could say about finals was that at least one cafeteria on campus was open twenty-four hours for the duration. Unfortunately, this was only mid-terms.

He pushed a box out of the way so he could tug open the bottom drawer to his desk. In his first year as a grad student, he'd shared an office with two others working on their Masters.

"Blair, graduate studies are a whole different world from easy days of undergrad," Doug had pontificated that first morning. He was older than Blair by several years. "You've got to keep in mind the following items, think of them as the _Grad Student Survival Guide_.

"Always know where your towel is?" quipped Blair.

Doug ignored that, clearly missing the reference. Instead he leaned back in his chair and wiped his long dark bangs from out of his eyes. "The most important first, never turn down free food. Check out visiting lecturers, you get face time with the profs plus they usually have free wine and cheese." He looked Blair up and down, "You may want to wear a sports coat if you want them to serve you wine."

He moved to tick something off his second finger, "Next, make sure you lay in a store of munchies for all nighters. Your schedule and the cafeterias' won't match. They never do. And third, if you don't want to share said munchies with Hargrove's resident rodents, buy a thick Tupperware box as a pantry." Here he pulled open this bottom drawer showing a clear container filled with sunflower seeds, beef jerky, Orville Redenbacher packages, and a small jar of peanut butter.

Blair soon learned that most of what Doug said was worthless, but that first day lecture had been pure gold. His own Tupperware pantry had been his salvation more times than he cared to remember. He could live on vending machine food-- not that he'd ever reveal that little fact to Jim --but they only restock the nearest machines every two weeks, so he'd taken matters into his own hands.

Hands that had been much too busy to re-stock, he realized as he unsealed the lid to find a piece of paper sitting lost and alone at the bottom of the container. The part of his brain that specialized in self-recriminations and 'I told you so's, was gleefully reaming him out as he read, "Skip the blueberry Power Bars, and don't forget to buy more everything."

So much for that idea. A vague picture of the loft and its full cupboards danced in front of him. Then an image of Jim replaced that. Blair shivered. This morning, no wait by now it was yesterday, he'd had enough coffee to really look at his partner. Jim was one of those rare and irksome individuals, a morning person. But Blair had finally noticed the slump in Jim's shoulders. Jim had shuffled to the machine and filled his favorite mug, but he'd let some coffee slop over the lip. And he hadn't cleaned it up.

That was the final straw for Blair. How could he expect a Sentinel of all people to ignore him while he was in marking mode? Jim wouldn't want to think he was forcing Blair out, so he'd just left a message on the loft's answering machine, saying he'd be out of Jim's hair tonight. The papers had to be marked. Jim had to get some sleep. His office was the perfect solution.

Or would have been if he'd re-stocked.

He shoved the drawer closed. There was a definite down side to this observer gig. Man, what had he been thinking? Find a Sentinel, run some tests, write a kick-ass paper to wow his committee, then find a position somewhere sunny. The academic world wasn't fond of people who stayed in one spot too long, unless they were tenured. And those expeditions barely ameliorated the fact that Rainier was his only University experience. He'd been sure it was his last year on his Doctorate. Then he met his Sentinel.

At first he'd been focused on the sensory tests. Then he'd begun to focus on Jim: his job, his motivations, his world. And how long could he be a part of that world without the protective camouflage of the dissertation?

If Jim wanted him around even that long. Jim's sudden fishing trip – solo fishing trip, despite Blair's and Simon's best efforts—was in no way bugging him. It was just one thing life with his mother had taught him: never overstay your welcome.

Ergo, working from his office.

Man, did he even have change for the antique relics they called vending machines? He'd swear that they were   
only two generations removed from the original automats. He'd read about those in New York. He would have loved to do a study of that version of fast food. All social classes eating together. No masters or servants but equity in front of the automatic dispatch. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. And this thought process was so not helping his hunger pangs.

Neither was the fact he'd only found sixty seven cents and a note in his Mexican coin purse in the top pen drawer of his desk. The note read, "Refill change for V. Machines". Pulling the drawer further out, he rattled it, listening for the sound of coins clinking together. Wait, there was something. He eased his hand into the tight space, padding down the paperclips and unsorted pages hoping to find the source of the clinking. With satisfaction he felt the coins being pulled into his palm.

Opening his hand, his grin sank into a grimace. How wrong would it be to use Botswana Pula and Thebe coins to get a couple of chocolate bars? God, his life was a mess. "Neither fish, nor fowl." At the station all he heard was, "You're not a cop, Sandburg". Of course, lately, the rare time the Department Head spotted him, he'd changed his standard greeting to, "Planning on playing professor today, Mr. Sandburg?"

He dumped the various sized coins on his desk, then dropped his head forward and did a few neck stretches. His future wasn't a problem to solve tonight. Wait a second, when had his future become a problem? Something to dread instead of something to leap into?

Continuing some stretches to stay alert, his right hand nudged and then knocked over a pile of ninety-seven essays sorted alphabetically by class. As both hands reached to catch the tumbling tower, he could only watch as they slipped haphazardly to the floor.

This was definitely not going as planned. But then nothing had lately.

He had tea. Tea had caffeine. He should make some tea. There, that was a workable plan. Once he had tea, he could decide if it was better to sort the marked papers, or to start on the remaining ones. Binary choices. Simple choices.

Choices which would work if his stomach hadn't decided to strike pulling his brain along in support. Maybe if he used the Pula and the sixty seven cents, he could…had anyone else been to Botswana lately? And Jim would say that's an irrelevant line of logic. Although the Jim voice was also bitching at him for not being prepared. Hey, he had a kit containing aloe, saline solution, and alcohol wipes in his knapsack, all in anticipation of a Sentinel reaction. He was prepared. And he'd used to be good at looking after himself. He'd just fallen out of practice what with the double life he was leading.

The kettle boiled, bringing his attention back to the tea. Tea, there'd been papers written on its effects on the British empire, its role in modern British culture, nutritional benefits and the role of tinctures as holistic remedies. In fact maybe he should propose a cross discipline course with the History department.

Mostly it was warm with caffeine. Good enough.

He'd just taken his first sip, when there was a knock at the door. "Sandburg, this door had better be locked."

As the handle turned, Blair sighed. This was his office; surely he didn't need to be paranoid HERE. The loft, he understood since it seemed every crazy criminal within a hundred miles of Cascade knew THAT address, but that was Jim's world. This was the merry-go-round.

He was about to defend himself when a scent distracted him. It couldn't be. He must be imagining things. No way would Jim have gone to the Falafel Hut. He always complained about how golf balls were for the green, not food. Not that Blair was going to mention that fact.

"Chief, have you no sense of self preservation? Anyone could just walk in here."

"Well if anyone came bearing food, they'd be hailed as my savior! That's for me?"

"No, I thought, hey it's late. Why don't I pick up some fried golf balls and go and taunt Sandburg. Of course it's for you. Who else would eat chickpeas? Meat, now that's what makes a sandwich." With that, Jim tossed him the white bag with distinctive green writing. Blair pulled out three wax paper wrapped bundles.

"Okay, I take back all the nasty things they were saying about you. You are a prince amongst men. Did you get..."

Jim interrupted his question by pulling out another bag. "Here's the quirky sauces. I swear they are designed to make those things even messier to eat."

"Pitas are much more contained than the average Wonderburger. But they're nothing without the tahini! Okay, you're promoted to king."

"So if I'm king, does this mean you'll be cleaning the bathroom tomorrow?" Jim gently moved the pile of books from the chair to the floor in front of the desk before sitting down.

Looking up from his half eaten pita, he let his thoughts catch up with his stomach. Quickly chewing, then swallowing, the big bite, he stated, "You're supposed to be sleeping."

Jim just shrugged. "I just got off the first shift of the Swartz stakeout. I don't have to be in until 4 to do it again. We missed lunch so I figured you could use a snack." He rolled his shoulders, then leaned back in the chair. "Plus the loft felt a bit empty without you camped out on the sofa."

Blair closed his eyes and tried not to take a centering breath. That statement told him something he hadn't realized he'd needed to hear. Maybe he was like his falafels, neither fish nor fowl, but that didn't matter. He was something more important—a part of Jim's world.

"So this is bribery for the stake out? Cuz man, right now I'd have given you my first born, so I think you're settling too low."

That earned a chuckle. "You've seen through my nefarious plan there, Chief. As for that first born, what would I want with a child? I've almost got you house trained and I'd hate to start over."

Male bonding over shared insults. This might not answer all the questions of his future, but with a full stomach and a friend sitting across from him, Blair really didn't care.


End file.
